


The Debt Is Terrible That Must Be Paid In Song

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Aubry Is A Good Brother, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse, Witcher Training Is Terrible, Witcher Trials Are Terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Jaskier agrees to help Ciri with a magical experiment, and an unexpected accident during the process renders him six years old.Little Julian finds Kaer Morhen - and especially the White Wolf - more than a little terrifying. And the Witchers who love him find everything little Julian says about his father to be absolutely horrifying.And Aubry finds himself thinking very seriously about what their anger towards the Count de Lettenhove means in regards to the harsh training of the boys who will someday be Witchers themselves.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Aubry (Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 625
Kudos: 3794
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Eskel**

“Um, Papa? Uncle Eskel?”

Eskel and Geralt look up from the map spread out on the table at Ciri, who is peering around the doorframe. “What is it, cub?” Geralt asks gently.

“You know how Jas was going to be helping me and Aunt Yen today?” Ciri’s voice is higher than it ought to be, and she smells worried. Eskel straightens, frowning. Geralt steps towards the doorway, opening his arms, and Ciri surprisingly _doesn’t_ run towards him.

“What happened, cub?” Geralt asks softly.

“I _swear_ I didn’t mean to, Papa,” Ciri says, tears starting to show in her eyes, and steps into the room. Behind her, clutching at her hand, is a tiny child - one Eskel doesn’t recognize for a long moment. He’s not one of the trainees, and he’s not any of the servants’ children - he’s wearing nothing but a man’s long undershirt, his feet bare -

The smell hits him at the same time it gets to Geralt, judging by the way Geralt reels back suddenly and makes a sharp, distressed noise. The tiny child - _Jaskier_ \- flinches and tries to hide behind Ciri’s legs.

Geralt clutches at the edge of the table, staring in horror and dismay. Eskel crouches down and holds out a hand very slowly. “Hey there, Jaskier,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low and gentle. “Do you know me?”

Tiny Jaskier shakes his head and shuffles further behind Ciri. “Father says I mustn’t use that name,” he whispers.

“Julian, then,” Eskel says, carefully not letting the anger show. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Tiny Jaskier nods.

“I’m Eskel,” Eskel continues. “This is Geralt. He’s Ciri’s Papa.” Tiny Jaskier stares at him with enormous blue eyes, mute and shaking with fear.

Geralt crouches down beside Eskel, trying to make himself look small. “Hello, Julian,” he says softly. The boy doesn’t respond. “Ciri, cub, what happened?”

“The spell just went - _weird_ ,” Ciri says. “Aunt Yen is trying to figure out why. She said Jas - Julian - would be safer with you until she figures it out. He didn’t know her, or me, at all. He didn’t know Aubry either.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “I see. How old are you, Julian?”

“Six,” Jaskier - no, Julian, if Eskel thinks of him as Julian it’s less jarring - whispers. “Are you the White Wolf?” His voice trembles with fear.

“...Yes,” Geralt admits. “But you will come to no harm here, Julian. No one in Kaer Morhen will hurt you, I swear it.”

“Did Father send me here because I was bad?” Julian asks, voice trembling. Eskel wants to pick him up and cuddle him close, wants to kiss his fears away, wants - quite badly - to go find the Count de Lettenhove and string him up by his own intestines.

“ _No_ ,” Geralt says, sharply. Julian cringes.

“You weren’t bad,” Eskel says soothingly. “There was a - a magical accident.” He glances up at Ciri, who looks absolutely devastated. As soon as Julian stops looking terrified, Eskel is hugging his darling cub. “We didn’t expect you, but while you are here, we will keep you safe.”

Julian looks him over warily, far more cautious than Eskel thinks so young a child should be, and then looks Geralt over even more hesitantly. Geralt and Eskel both try to look as harmless as they can - no easy feat for a pair of hulking Witchers. Finally, Julian looks up at Ciri, who nods and smiles down at him.

“Papa and Uncle Eskel won’t let _anything_ hurt you,” she says.

“Alright,” Julian whispers, and steps away from her, and gives Geralt a bow - quite a good bow for a six-year-old. “I am at your service, my lord,” he quavers.

Geralt gives Eskel a slightly panicked look. Eskel shrugs minutely and holds his hand out a little farther. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll take you to find some clothing that fits, and then we can go from there, hm?”

“Yes, my lord,” Julian says. Eskel nods and stands, and bends to pick him up - he’s not going to make Julian walk around _barefoot_ on the cold stone of Kaer Morhen. Julian flinches, just a little, as Eskel’s hands touch him, and Eskel recoils like he’s been bitten.

“Fu-” he bites off the word hastily. “Julian, may I carry you?”

“Father says I am too old to be carried like a babe,” Julian replies.

Eskel exchanges a look of helpless bafflement and rage with Geralt. “That...may be true,” Eskel says at last. “But your feet are bare. Will you allow me to carry you until we can get you some shoes?”

Julian looks down at his feet and swallows. “You won’t tell Father?” he whispers.

“Not a word,” Eskel promises.

“Alright,” Julian says, and holds still as Eskel gathers him up, propping him on his hip just as he used to do with Ciri.

Geralt stands and opens his arms, and Ciri collapses into his embrace, clinging to him. “My cub,” he murmurs in her ear, so quiet Eskel’s sure Julian can’t hear. “Not your fault, I know. Is this Jaskier made young, or Julian plucked from Lettenhove?”

“Aunt Yen’s not sure,” Ciri whispers back.

Oh, that’s just...peachy, Eskel thinks, and carries Julian out of the room. Aubry falls in beside them, radiating worry.

“Julian,” Eskel says, “this is Aubry of the Wolf School. Aubry, this is Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, who is...unexpectedly in Kaer Morhen for a while.”

“It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” Julian chirps, staring at Aubry wide-eyed.

“I’m no lord, young Viscount Julian,” Aubry replies, holding out a hand and clasping Julian’s offered fingers gently. “Just Aubry.”

“Aubry will guard you while you are here,” Eskel says, shooting Aubry a look. Aubry nods solemnly.

Aniela is the Mistress of the Wardrobe - a job Eskel hadn’t even known _was_ a job before Jan hired her and it turned out having someone in charge of making sure the keep has a sufficiency of linens and the seamstresses aren’t too dreadfully overworked and so on is _really useful_. She’s also about sixty and utterly unflappable, which is a useful quality in a woman who has to deal with the many interesting ways Witchers can ruin their clothing.

“And what have we here, then, Eskel?” she asks as Eskel knocks on the open door of her office. “Hello, lad, who might you be?”

“This is Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Eskel says carefully. “He will be with us for a time, and needs clothing - and especially shoes.”

Aniela’s eyebrows rise, but she gives Julian a friendly smile. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Viscount Julian. Let’s see what we have made up that would fit you.” There are always some sets of clothing on hand for the trainees, Eskel knows; some of it _should_ fit Julian without too much tailoring. Aniela stands and opens the door behind her desk to reveal an _enormous_ closet lined with shelves, and rummages through it for a few moments before emerging with a small stack of clothing, and a pair of soft boots that can be laced up to fit any feet within a fairly large range.

“Here, let’s see if these fit, lad,” she says, and Eskel puts Julian down carefully. Julian wiggles out of the long undershirt and folds it neatly, handing it to Aniela, before scrambling into smallclothes and tunic and breeches and stockings and a warm overcoat, and sitting down on the floor to try to put on the boots. The rather complicated lacing defeats his tiny fingers. Eskel kneels down beside him.

“May I help?” he asks.

“Father says I am too old to ask for help,” Julian says.

Eskel is going to go find the Count de Lettenhove as soon as this is all over, and have _words_ with the man. They will not be kind words. “Well, that’s in Lettenhove,” he says at last. “In Kaer Morhen, you should ask. May I?”

Julian examines his face closely, not flinching from the scars but staring deep into his eyes. “...Alright,” he says at last, and Eskel nods and carefully laces the boots onto his feet, taking care not to tighten them too much.

“Right,” he says, and stands, and offers Julian a hand. Julian scrambles to his feet and takes it. Ye gods, his hand is _tiny_. All of him is tiny. Eskel wants to bundle him into Geralt’s rooms and stand guard on the door, protecting this fragile little child with his very _life_. “Let’s...find you rooms, I guess.”

Julian patters along beside him, staring around at the Witchers and servants as they pass; he smells nervous and curious both. They attract a fair number of stares and some baffled exclamations, but between Eskel’s glare and Aubry’s looming presence, nobody actually dares to stop them.

Jaskier’s rooms are empty, of course. Julian stares around when Eskel ushers him through the door. “Someone lives here already, Lord Eskel,” he says at last.

“Yes,” Eskel says, wondering if he should’ve found different rooms. Maybe put the lad in _Ciri’s_ rooms, on a trundle? “Our court bard lives here, but he’s...not here just now. He won’t mind your using it, if you like, or we can put you in the cub’s room? We can find a trundle -” Fuck, he has no idea what he’s doing.

“The cub, Lord Eskel?” Julian asks.

“Ciri, the young lady who brought you to meet us,” Eskel explains.

Julian considers that carefully, looking around Jaskier’s rooms and shrinking back against Eskel’s leg a little. “I’d - I’d rather be in with Lady Ciri? If that’s acceptable?”

“More than,” Eskel says, deeply relieved. “Aubry, grab someone and send them for a trundle-bed, would you? And we can show Julian where the cub’s rooms are.”

“Aye,” Aubry agrees, and Eskel leads Julian back out of Jaskier’s rooms and closes the door gently, trying not to feel like everything has gone _dreadfully_ wrong. This is something Yen can fix, surely. This is _temporary_. They will all look back on this and laugh in the not too distant future.

Jan’s underlings work fast, and by the time Eskel and Julian and Aubry make it to the top of the tower stairs, having gone quite slowly in deference to Julian’s size, there’s a trundle bed behind a folding screen in a corner of Ciri’s bedroom, and a little chest at the foot of it which Eskel assumes has more clothing in it. Julian, however, is more interested in the window: he scrambles up onto the window-seat and leans out over the sill, gaping at the view.

Ciri’s room has a truly marvelous view of the mountains and the pastures behind Kaer Morhen, and on the other side, of the plains of Kaedwen spread out past the feet of the Blue Mountains. Julian looks _enthralled_. “Where _are_ we?” he breathes, too soft for human ears to catch.

“Kaer Morhen, in the Blue Mountains of Kaedwen,” Eskel replies, and Julian whips around to stare at him in shock.

“You heard me!”

“Witchers can hear very well,” Eskel explains.

Julian’s eyes light up, and he claps his hand over his mouth and whispers, “Can you hear this?”

“Yes, I can hear that,” Eskel chuckles, and moves slowly over to stand beside Julian, pointing out the window and concentrating. “See that tree down there?”

Julian nods eagerly, staring along Eskel’s pointing hand.

“There’s a bird in that tree, and I can hear it chirping if I really concentrate,” Eskel says.

“Oh!” Julian gasps. “That’s _awesome!_ ”

Eskel chuckles. “It comes in handy,” he allows. Among other things, it means he can hear whoever is approaching up the winding tower stairs; by the heartbeat and the clack of her impractical shoes, it’s Yen. He turns as she appears in the doorway.

“ _Here_ you are,” she says briskly. Julian jumps off the window seat and stands up very straight, looking terrified again. Yen hesitates, giving him a look of dismay. “Eskel, may I speak with you outside?”

“Sure,” Eskel says. “Aubry -”

“See what I can show the little lord,” Aubry rumbles, and steps up beside Julian, smiling down at him. “Bet I can name every horse in the pasture.”

“ _Really?_ ” Julian breathes, effectively distracted, and goes scrambling up on the window seat again. Aubry leans over him, one hand hovering close enough to grab the child in case of disaster, and points out the window. “Big black stallion,” he says. “Scorpion. Bay mare’s Roach.”

“Those are _silly_ names,” Julian says, and Aubry chuckles.

“Yes. Very silly.”

Eskel steps out onto the landing and closes the door. _He_ can still hear Julian chirping questions and Aubry’s soft answers, but the boy won’t be able to hear _him_.

“I have good news and bad news,” Yen says without preamble. “The good news is, this _is_ Jaskier, just younger - our little flower isn’t dealing with being in Lettenhove in the wrong decade.”

Eskel sags against the wall in relief. “Younger and he doesn’t remember us,” he points out, scrubbing a hand over his face. “ _Gods_ , if he never looks at me with such fear again, it will be _far_ too soon.”

Yen pats him on the arm. “The other good news is that I’m pretty sure I can reverse it, with a little time to study what exactly the little menace _did_.”

“Thank the _gods_ ,” Eskel breathes. “What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that even once I figure it out, getting everything set up to do it _safely_ is going to take a while. A month or so, I’d guess.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eskel whispers. A month without their lark? But better a month than forever. “You’re sure we can’t just - I don’t know, have Ciri reverse whatever she did?”

Yen shakes her head. “Neither I nor Ciri knows what she did to that spell. It was _supposed_ to be a way of viewing a moment in the past - Jaskier volunteered to be the subject, since we could pinpoint not only the exact moment but the physical location of several major events in his life. It makes it easier, at least for a novice like Ciri.”

“What major event happened when Jaskier was six?” Eskel asks warily.

Yen grimaces. “Geralt took Caingorn,” she says.

“...What the fuck does that have to do with Lettenhove?”

“Jaskier told us he has - had - _has_ quite a vivid memory of the day the Pankratzes heard about Caingorn’s conquest,” Yen explains. “It was the first time he really heard about the Wolf, and was old enough to understand any of what he was hearing. Ciri was going to try to scry that day specifically.”

“Oh joy,” Eskel says, and puts a hand over his face. “So not only do we have a six-year-old version of our lark, he’s just learned that Geralt is _terrifying_. Augh. _Fuck_.”

“Pretty much,” Yen agrees. “Soon as I get this fixed, I am going to have a quiet evening with a barrel of good wine. You’re welcome to join me.”

“I’ll bring the mead,” Eskel sighs. “Alright. A month. We can handle a month. He can sit on on Ciri’s lessons - oh _fuck_ , I have to tell Milena she’s in charge of Ciri’s academic work for a month -”

“Eskel. _Breathe_ ,” Yen says. “Milena’s got a good sensible head on her shoulders; she’ll manage just fine. You panicking won’t help anything.”

“Mph,” Eskel says. “Alright.” He takes a slow deep breath, then another, and listens for a moment to Julian chirping questions about the horses, Aubry answering calmly. “Alright.”

*

**Aubry**

Aubry genuinely thought he’d gotten used to weirdness. He’s almost a hundred and fifty years old; he spent more than a century on the Path before the Wolf decided to change the world. He’s seen just about every sort of strange magical accident (and malicious experiment) he’d thought the world held.

His liege lord and friend - his _brother_ \- being turned into a six-year-old is a new and unpleasant sort of weirdness.

Young Jaskier - Julian - is clever and shy and curious and a little scared, and Aubry has already decided that he hates the words “Father says.”

 _Father says_ Julian mustn’t yell.

 _Father says_ Julian mustn’t run.

 _Father says_ Julian mustn’t _sing_ \- Aubry almost punched a wall at that one.

 _Father says_ Julian mustn’t ask for help.

 _Father says_ Julian mustn’t - on and on and on, and Aubry is going to have _words_ with the Count de Lettenhove, just as soon as Julian is Jaskier again.

Thankfully, while Julian _is_ quite obviously scared of the Wolf (Aubry can’t help wincing at the thought: Geralt is going to be _heartbroken_ that even this very small version of his lark could fear him), and rather nervous around Eskel, he seems to have decided that Aubry is acceptably unthreatening. He patters along at Aubry’s side as they head down to the dining hall ( _Father says_ Julian mustn’t ask to be carried), chirping questions up at him about everything he sees. Thank the _gods_ he’s come out of his shell a little: seeing any version of Jaskier silent and terrified brings back some nasty memories of the first days Jaskier spent in Kaer Morhen, and Aubry, like everyone else in the keep, has learned to hate the smell of their songbird’s fear.

Once they reach the dining hall, Aubry pauses. Julian obviously can’t sit where Jaskier usually does - asking the lad to share a seat with the Wolf would _not_ end well just now - so where…?

Eskel comes over, pausing far enough away that Julian doesn’t flinch, and crouches down. “Julian,” he says. “Would you prefer to sit next to Ciri, up by Geralt, or next to Aubry?”

Julian shuffles a little closer to Aubry, and fists a tiny hand in the fabric of Aubry’s breeches. “Next to Aubry, my lord?” he quavers.

Eskel nods, keeping his face utterly calm and open with an effort Aubry can smell - behind that mask, he’s scared and angry and worried and confused, just as Aubry himself is. “Sounds good,” he says. “After the meal, we’ll need to introduce you to the hall. It’ll be loud, but nobody will hurt you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Julian whispers. Eskel nods and stands, gives Aubry an anguished look, and retreats to his seat at the center of the table, where the Wolf has been watching the whole scene with an unreadable look and an air of extreme unhappiness. Aubry gives the child at his side his very best unthreatening smile.

“Let’s go sit down, then,” he says.

He gets Julian settled between himself and Remus - thankfully Remus doesn’t ask any questions, just shifts over a little to make room on the bench - and makes a mental note to find a block of wood or something to let the child see over the table properly. About a minute later, Jan shows up carrying exactly that. Aubry nods his thanks. Jan coming to Kaer Morhen was a godsdamned _godsend_ , honestly.

Once Julian is seated, he leans over to tug on Aubry’s sleeve, and when Aubry leans down, he whispers, “Did I pick wrong? Did I make Lord Eskel angry?”

“He’s not angry,” Aubry reassures him, patting him very gently on the back and leaving his hand there to make sure Julian doesn’t tip backwards off the bench. “There was no wrong answer.”

“Oh,” Julian says, seeming rather taken aback by this. He seems even more startled when the food is brought out, and Aubry makes sure to heap Julian’s plate before taking any for himself. What, do the rest of the Pankratzes not help their _six-year-old_ kinsman at the table? Even the _trainees_ are given help when they need it, since there’s no point letting them go _hungry_!

Julian eats very tidily for a child. He also _lights up_ when Aubry snags a honeycake from a passing tray and presses it into his hands - then droops again. “Father says I am too old for sweets,” he says mournfully.

“Not in Kaer Morhen,” Aubry replies, as firmly as he dares. “One honeycake after supper won’t do you any harm.” Melitele _wept_ , how did this child grow up to be as vibrant, as fearless, as _joyful_ as Jaskier is? He’s got to reassess his judgement of Jaskier’s courage and force of will - and it was already fairly high.

Julian gives him a shy look from under his floppy brown hair, and a tiny smile. “Thank you, Aubry,” he says, and starts nibbling on the honeycake, making tiny happy noises under his breath.

He’s just about done when Eskel comes down the table towards them. Julian goes very still, dropping the last bit of honeycake onto his plate with a squeak like he thinks he’s just been caught doing something dreadful. Eskel glances at Aubry, the question clear in his eyes.

Aubry mouths the words, “Father says,” and Eskel’s eyes go dark with anger as he nods.

“Finish your treat, lad, and then we’ll introduce you,” he says to Julian, who looks quite startled by the gentle tone of his voice. He finishes the scrap of honeycake in a pair of quick bites, and Aubry helps him down from the bench.

“Aubry, with us,” Eskel says quietly. “He’ll want the reassurance, I’ll wager.”

“Aye,” Aubry agrees, and follows Eskel and Julian up to the big double seat at the center of the table. The Wolf looks a bit lonely without his songbird sitting beside him; smells a bit lonely, too, poor man, and worse when Julian hides behind Aubry’s leg and stares up at him in apprehension.

“Hm,” the Wolf says, and stands. “Aubry. Lift him up?”

Aubry bends and gathers Julian onto his hip, and Julian clings to his tunic with both hands and stares out over the crowd as the Witchers fall silent. Into the hush, the Wolf says, “This is Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. He will be with us for a little while. Guard him well.”

“White Wolf!” comes the answer from every throat, and Julian flinches a little at the wave of sound.

“I need a brawl,” Eskel adds into the brief hush following the oath, and there’s a general cheer of agreement. Aubry steps back as Eskel vaults the table to meet an oncoming Bear with an eager howl, and then the _Wolf_ goes over the table, too. Well, shit. The Wolf doesn’t usually join the brawls.

“What are they doing?” Julian whispers in Aubry’s ear.

“Brawling,” Aubry says.

“...Why?”

Aubry shrugs a little. “It’s fun. Helps us relax.”

“Oh,” Julian says, and watches the commotion wide-eyed for a few moments, wincing every time someone gets in a particularly impressive blow. “Doesn’t it _hurt_?”

“Witchers are hard to hurt,” Aubry reassures him. “There’s no permanent damage.”

Another brief silence, and then, very quietly, “Do _I_ need to brawl?”

“Never,” Aubry says at once. “Witchers only.”

“...Did Father send me to become a Witcher?” comes the even quieter question. Aubry’s breath catches.

“No, lad,” he says, very gently. “You will never be a Witcher.” He hesitates, but they haven’t actually _lied_ to the child yet, and he doesn’t plan to start now. “Someday you will be a bard.”

Julian gapes at him. “Father says -” he starts.

Aubry shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what your father says. You’re in Kaer Morhen now.”

“Oh,” Julian breathes.

Ciri, who went darting down towards the end of the table earlier, comes back, leading Milena and Lambert, and approaches Aubry with all the care of a wolf stalking a particularly twitchy rabbit. Aubry jerks his chin at her, and Julian twists around in his arms. He hasn’t tried to get down, yet, and Aubry plans to hold him as long as possible. He can’t get hurt if Aubry’s _holding_ him.

“Julian,” Ciri says, smiling at him - if her expression is a bit strained, Aubry can hardly blame her. “These are Lambert and Milena. Milena’s my lady-in-waiting, and Lambert is her consort.”

“It is my honor to meet you,” Julian says, trying to bow. Lambert makes a noise that’s probably a stifled curse. Milena curtsies.

“And ours to meet you, young lord Julian. Welcome to Kaer Morhen.” She smiles. “Eskel tells me you will be joining Ciri’s lessons, so we shall be seeing rather a lot of each other.”

“I will work hard, Lady Milena,” Julian promises, and Milena conceals her wince quite well.

“I’m sure you will,” she says gently. “I shall look forward to our first lesson together.” She glances at Aubry. “I think perhaps the young lord is tired,” she adds, as Julian stifles a yawn. “It’s been a long day for us all.”

“I’ll come up and help you get ready for bed,” Ciri offers. “If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Julian says, and stifles another yawn. “I - I can stay up if I need to, really I can. Father says -”

“That’s in Lettenhove,” Aubry interrupts, fairly sure that he won’t be able to keep from growling if he hears another godsdamned order from Julian’s father. “We’re in Kaer Morhen, and in Kaer Morhen, you sleep when you’re tired.”

“Oh,” Julian says. “Alright.”

“Come on, then,” Ciri says, and leads the way.

*

**Ciri**

Ciri sits on the end of her bed and watches Jas sleep in the dim light from the hall lantern; she’s not tired yet, not really, but she’s not going to leave him alone, even if there _is_ a guard out on the landing.

This is _her_ fault, and there’s a tight pit in her stomach as she looks at him. Jas volunteered to help her, and she made some sort of _horrid_ mistake, and now he’s _six_ \- and if Aunt Yen can’t figure out what she did, he might be _stuck_ that way!

And he’s so _scared_.

Ciri would have been scared, too, at six, if she’d been suddenly yanked away from Kaer Morhen and dumped somewhere else, surrounded by strangers, but it feels like more than that somehow. He’s _terrified_ of Papa, which makes a certain amount of sense, but he also seems scared of his _own_ father, which is...incomprehensible. Ciri can’t even _imagine_ being scared of her Papa, though she knows many other people are.

At least little Jas seems to like Aubry; that’s something. That he’s scared of Uncle Eskel as well as Papa, though...Ciri hasn’t seen Uncle Eskel look so sad in pretty much _ever_ , and she hates it. And Papa’s sad, too, and it’s _all her fault_.

She sniffles a little and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. Aunt Yen will fix it. Aunt Yen _has_ to be able to fix it. And then Jas will be back to his proper age, and Ciri will _never_ try that spell again, and everything will be _fine_.

There’s a soft step on the landing, and she looks up to see Papa in the doorway. He looks at her for a long moment, then crosses the room silently and settles on the end of the bed beside her and opens his arms. Ciri curls up against his chest like she used to when she was as tiny as Jas is now, and he holds her close, pressing kisses against her hair.

“It’s my fault,” she whispers, knowing he’ll hear her easily.

“It was an accident,” Papa says gently. “Yen says it was a pure fluke, nothing anyone could have predicted. You’ve powers over time, my cub, and they picked today to wake.”

“I don’t _want_ them,” Ciri whispers.

“Ah, cub,” Papa hums, and presses another kiss to her hair, and rocks her like he used to when she was very small. She knows as well as he does that he can’t take her powers away from her, not even this newest one which has caused so much chaos, and her Papa has never lied to her, nor promised anything he could not do; and he does not do so now, only holds her cradled against him, and rumbles a comforting sound deep in his chest. Ciri cuddles close and lets herself cry a little, safe in her Papa’s arms.

*

**Julian**

Julian lies very still under his blanket, eyes open just the barest slit, watching in utter shock as the White Wolf holds Lady Ciri close and rocks her like a babe.

He would have thought - well, he would have thought the White Wolf would be even less kind than Father is. _Father_ would have scoffed at such a weak display of emotion from any of his children, even the girls, once they’d left the nursery behind; would have repaid a request for comfort with a buffet or worse. But the White Wolf presses kisses to his daughter’s hair and murmurs things Julian can’t hear but that _sound_ like reassurance. And Lady Ciri isn’t scared of him at _all_.

There’s another soft footfall, and a second Witcher comes in: Lord Eskel, who has also been strangely kind. He kneels down beside the bed and puts a hand on Lady Ciri’s back, murmuring something gentle and sweet.

The last time Julian saw Lord Eskel, he was punching another Witcher in the face, grinning like a wolf, in the middle of that terrifying brawl. Julian would have expected him to be just as harsh about weakness as Father is. But he seems more concerned than anything else, and when Lady Ciri lets go of the White Wolf, she turns and hugs Lord Eskel, too, and he hugs back, very gently.

The White Wolf and Lord Eskel get Lady Ciri settled in her bed, tucking the blankets over her tenderly, and take turns kissing her forehead. And then they both turn and look at _Julian_ , half-hidden behind the screen. Their eyes glow in the dark, gold and amber, like cats’ eyes. Julian holds very still, breathing as quietly and evenly as he can. Can they tell he’s awake? Will they be angry he saw them being so kind to Lady Ciri? Will they be angry he left the hall so early? Aubry said it would be alright, but -

“Ah, fuck,” Lord Eskel sighs. The White Wolf loops an arm around Lord Eskel’s waist, and the two Witchers lean against each other.

“Trust Yen,” the White Wolf says, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Yeah,” Lord Eskel says, and then, so softly Julian almost doesn’t hear it, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

They turn and leave the room together, pulling the door shut behind them. Julian lies there in the darkness, listening to Lady Ciri snore softly and wondering why Lord Eskel keeps using that name - why he sounded so _sad_.

He falls asleep still wondering.


	2. Chapter 2

**Aubry**

In the two weeks Julian has been in Kaer Morhen, Aubry has gone from meaning to have _words_ with the Count de Lettenhove to a firm determination that once Jaskier is back to himself again, Aubry is going to go and make sure that the Count de Lettenhove is as dead as any other monster which has the bad luck to encounter an angry Witcher.

_Father says_ Julian mustn’t laugh so loud.

_Father says_ Julian mustn’t learn music.

_Father says_ Julian is too old to play in the snow.

_Father says, Father says, Father says_ , and apparently everything Julian’s father says is meant to break the bright, beautiful spirit of the boy who _somehow_ manages to grow up into Jaskier the bard, and mold him into -

Aubry’s not even sure what. A sort of quiet, utterly obedient homunculus, like some mages use for servants, perhaps. And the whole thing is made _worse_ because Aubry knows what happens: knows Julian refuses to be broken, keeps growing like the hardy flower he names himself after, and his father, seeing he can’t break or use the lad, decides to get rid of him instead. Throw him, quite literally, to the wolves.

Aubry will definitely have help, if he wants it, in going and expressing his extreme displeasure to the Count de Lettenhove. Lambert, Eskel, Coën, Ealdred - half the keep will come along, if Aubry suggests it, and Yennefer will open a portal without any objections at all. The Wolf might not be able to come along, not without making the expedition the first step in conquering the rest of Redania, but Aubry’s pretty sure he’ll either turn a blind eye or actively endorse the affair.

So yes, as soon as Julian is Jaskier again, Aubry plans to go and take a long-delayed vengeance on the Count de Lettenhove for the harm the man has done to one Aubry has come to think of as a younger brother, dearer even than many of his fellow Wolves.

But that’s not the most complicated part of this whole matter.

The problem, quite simply, is that none of the Witchers can bear the thought of anyone treating young Julian - their Jaskier, their songbird, tiny and helpless and precious beyond words - with harshness or cruelty. It would be monstrous beyond words; everyone is agreed on that. But that brings up the inescapable fact that the trainees - many of whom are as small, as helpless, as _young_ as Julian is -

The trainees are treated far more harshly than even the Count de Lettenhove ever treated his son.

Aubry’s never really thought about it before, aside from refusing the opportunity to become a trainer because he knew he could never be as hard on the lads as he’d need to be. Ciri’s presence never brought up such thoughts as he is having now, first because he did not spend much time with her, and second because she is a _girl_ , and thus ineligible for the Trials in all Schools save the Cats’. And he knows there are male children among the servants, but they stay out of the Witchers’ way until they are old enough to join their parents at their duties, looked after by nursemaids and tutors hired specially for the purpose. This is, in fact, the first time almost _anyone_ among the Witchers has spent a great deal of time with a boy-child who _isn’t_ a trainee, and who _is_ incalculably dear to them.

It has held a mirror up to them, and Aubry has not liked what he sees.

Neither, he knows, have Eskel and the Wolf, nor Lambert - though Lambert has always hated the training and the Trials - nor any of the other dozens of Witchers who have spent time with young Julian and taken the requisite time and introspection to see what Aubry has.

The Witchers slew the Schools’ mages, back when Triss first brewed the potion that would let them test the trainees before the Trials, and the mages objected to it, saying that they needed the deaths for their experiments. The Wolf called them monsters, and he was right. Only a monster kills boy-children for _research_.

But then, what sort of creature beats boys bloody, runs them into exhaustion, leaves them broken and weeping day after day until finally they lie down on stone tables and scream away their humanity?

Aubry knows exactly what arguments will be brought up, when he brings his objections before the trainers. It’s always been done this way, they will say. How else should they train young Witchers? The Path is hard; the training must be hard, as well, to give the boys a chance to survive the rigors of the Path.

Yes, well, and Witchers have always been solitary monster hunters, living and dying alone on their Paths. The Schools have always been separate, rivals and not allies. Seven boys in ten have always died in the Trials. These last two decades have seen a _lot_ of changes here in Kaer Morhen, alterations to the way things have always been.

Aubry’s going to see if he can get them to change once more. Witchers are becoming something new: peacekeepers, trusted judges, child-rescuers, respected protectors. There’s no reason they shouldn’t have new training to go with everything else. And he’s just stubborn enough to make it happen.

*

**Eskel**

Eskel is going _mad_. He’s gotten used to having Jaskier constantly around: his scent, his voice, his endless energy and gleeful enthusiasm for the world, his _songs_. He’s gotten used to sleeping tangled up with Geralt and Jaskier, their mingled scents filling the air, their warmth against him, comforting and cozy and absolutely perfect. He’s gotten used to being _loved_.

The only thing that _has_ kept him from going entirely feral and running off into the mountains to hunt elk with his bare hands or something equally absurd is that Geralt is still here; Geralt loves him as surely as he ever has, honey-sweet and pure. Geralt is still in the big bed every night, curled around Eskel, clinging to him tightly as though he’s worried Eskel will vanish in the middle of the night. Geralt is still beside him during training, during meals, during council sessions. Eskel finds himself going out of his way to touch Geralt even more than usual, draping himself over Geralt’s shoulder, kissing his cheek, leaning against him anytime they’re both standing still, and Geralt is doing much the same in return - he’s never been quite so tactile with Eskel as these last few weeks.

Because their lark _is_ still in Kaer Morhen, the halls are still full of his scent, but he’s six years old, and scared of them.

Fear is a horrible scent on Jaskier, bitter and stinging, and both Eskel and Geralt want to wrap him in their arms and bundle him away and keep him safe from whatever has scared him -

And cannot, because what has scared him is _them_.

He’s quite comfortable with Aubry; he adores Ciri; he tags along after Milena like a duckling, and finds Lambert hilarious. He’s wary of Yen. And he finds the White Wolf and the Wolf’s right hand to be…

Well, terrifying.

He hides behind Aubry’s legs, or Ciri’s, or Milena’s, every time he sees Geralt. He’s less twitchy with Eskel, even allowing Eskel to take his hand occasionally, but he’s always nervous about it.

Geralt has been smelling miserable for two weeks now, and Eskel knows he’s much the same. Yen is working as hard as she can, but it’s going to be at least another week according to her most recent estimates. And in the meantime, Geralt and Eskel are both throwing themselves into training, into brawls, into running laps through the halls in the mostly-unused sections of the keep, _anything_ to distract them from the scent of their lark, afraid.

The whole keep is a bit on edge, actually. Eskel hadn’t quite realized how vital Jaskier has become to the smooth running of their days, but without his presence - his scent, lust and happiness like the world’s finest perfume, his voice, his music - without all of that, the Witchers of Kaer Morhen are starting to get _twitchy_. They’re used to having music four or five nights a week, songs they can bellow along to or soaring melodies to bask in; they’re used to seeing Geralt with his lark tucked up against him, smiling a little and smelling like contentment, or Eskel with their bard draped across his lap, humming snatches of new melodies; they’re used to jesting with the bard in the hot springs, and telling stories that will be transformed into songs.

Eskel doesn’t know how to fix it. _He_ can’t do what Jaskier does - even if he started sharing Geralt’s chair, as both of them are beginning to think he _ought_ , just for the comfort of it, he’s not their _lark_. He’s the Wolf’s right hand, who keeps the whole damn pack running in the same direction, but that’s very different from being the sort of bright spirit who lifts everyone’s mood just by _being_ there.

Geralt says it was almost this bad during the month Eskel and Jaskier were traveling down to the elven festival, but only _almost_ , because at least everyone knew that Jaskier was safe and would return in due time. Now, though - now everyone can see little Julian tagging along behind Ciri or nestled close against Aubry’s side, and everyone can _also_ see the dark circles under Yen’s eyes from the long hours she’s been spending trying _desperately_ to figure out how to turn Julian back into Jaskier, and the most prevalent scent in the keep these days is _worry_.

*

**Ciri**

Ciri is starting to get used to having little Julian around - it’s nice, in fact, to have a friend who’s _younger_ than she is, for once. Milena is lovely, of course, but she’s eight years older than Ciri is, a woman grown. Little Julian is half her age, and _tiny_ , and seems - now that he’s a little less scared - to enjoy following her around and playing games with her and giggling when she plays little pranks on the Witchers. If Ciri forgets that little Julian ought to be _Jas_ , ought to be her Papa and Uncle Eskel’s beloved, ought to be playing his lute and singing for the whole hall almost every night - if she sets that aside, she can just enjoy having him here.

And _here_ is clearly much, much better than Lettenhove. Ciri kind of hopes she never meets the Count de Lettenhove again, because if she does, she’ll stab him, and that would probably set off a war that her Papa doesn’t want to have yet. Little Julian is _still_ scared of Papa and Uncle Eskel, not because of anything they’ve _done_ , but just because they’re in charge, and little Julian assumes that any man - any _father_ \- who rules anything must be as strict and cruel as his own father is.

Little Julian is far more scared of his own father than he is of Papa and Uncle Eskel, and Ciri is rather surprised by how angry that makes her. How could _any_ father be so mean to his child as to elicit such fear?

Ciri doesn’t let herself think about it too much, because if she does, her control over her powers starts to get a little shaky, and she doesn’t want to accidentally set anything on fire again.

Instead, she concentrates on making little Julian’s time in Kaer Morhen as pleasant as possible. She shows him all the best places to sit and watch the Witchers training, because it fascinates little Julian as much as it did her when she was small, and she plays games with him, and she helps him with the penmanship and mathematics practice Milena assigns him, and she sings with him whenever he wants. He always seems astonished that he’s allowed to sing - _encouraged_ to sing, in fact - and he’s good even now, though Ciri can definitely tell how much he’ll improve as he grows up. He won’t sing in front of Papa or Uncle Eskel, but he’ll sing with Ciri and Milena and Lambert and Audry, and they get a pretty good chorus going.

(She doesn’t mention the fact that she’s caught Papa and Uncle Eskel, more than once, lurking outside of her room during those impromptu concerts, listening avidly.)

She wants her Jas back, though. Little Julian is fun, but she wants her _Jas_ , her clever tutor, her Papa and Uncle Eskel’s beloved, her dear friend and companion.

And she wants to know that she’ll never do anything like this again, but even Aunt Yen can’t yet promise _that_.

*

**Julian**

Julian is having a surprisingly good time in Kaer Morhen. He was _terrified_ at first, of course, because he’s only just learned about Witchers, about the fearsome White Wolf who conquered Kaedwen and Caingorn (he’s not entirely sure where those _are_ , but it made Father and Mother scared to hear about it, so they must be important), and so he was sure he was going to be eaten, or turned into a Witcher, or beaten for being bad, or - any number of horrid things, really.

But no one has hit him, not even a little bit, and no one has even _yelled_ at him, even when he’s been loud and obnoxious and full of questions in the way Father likes least, and Lady Ciri is awfully nice and also very strange, and Lady Milena is even nicer and almost entirely like a noble lady ought to be except she has _daggers_ and is in love with Lambert (“Oh _fuck_ no I’m not a lord, don’t even start that!”) who is very strange indeed and swears _so much_. And Aubry is strong and kind and protective, like the very best kind of big brother, the sort Julian has always wanted to have. He never tells Julian to shut up, and he encourages Julian to sing any time he likes, and he even got Julian a little notebook to scribble down his song ideas.

(The very first one Julian wrote, he hasn’t shown Aubry, because it’s _about_ Aubry and he doesn’t want to risk Aubry not liking it. It’s not done yet, anyhow. Maybe when he finishes it. _Aubry is the nicest wolf of all the wolves I know / he never ever growls and his hands are very warm / sometimes in the evening his eyes look like they glow / and he will never ever let me come to any harm…_ )

It’s so much better than Lettenhove.

The only really _strange_ thing, actually - aside from everything, because everything is so strange and new and different that his head feels like it’s being _stuffed_ with new things all the time - is what happens at bedtime. Every night, Julian goes up and curls up in the trundle bed behind the screen, and every night the White Wolf and Lord Eskel come in to tell Lady Ciri goodnight and kiss her on the forehead and tuck her in so gently, and then they stand there and look at him with their glowing eyes for a long, long moment, and then Lord Eskel whispers, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

And then they go away.

It’s so very strange, but - Julian kind of thinks they’re _sad_ when they look at him and he flinches, or hides behind Aubry’s legs, or covers his head with the blanket so he can just peek out through the tiniest crack. And he doesn’t like it when people are sad, even very scary people. And Aubry says they’ll never hurt him. And they’re - they’re not as scary as Father, really. They don’t yell, and they haven’t hit him or Lady Ciri ever at _all_ , and they’re always so careful, like how Julian is when he wants to pet a cat but it’s awfully skittish and he has to crouch down and make little coaxing noises at it until it comes to nuzzle against him.

So one night about two weeks after he first came to Kaer Morhen (no one has told him what sort of magical accident it was, but they also haven’t sent him _home_ , so he’s kind of alright with it), when they turn to look at him with their glowing eyes in the darkness, he sits up. They both startle a little.

Julian clambers out of bed and takes a deep breath. He’s not a baby; he’s not a _coward_ , whatever Father says. And they won’t hurt him. Aubry wouldn’t lie about that, and neither would Lady Ciri, and they’ve never hurt _her_ at all, nor even said mean things to her, even when she plays tricks or talks back or needs comforting. He walks forward, and both big Witchers go utterly still, staring down at him with wide glowing eyes.

Very carefully, Julian hugs Lord Eskel’s legs, and then, even more carefully, the White Wolf’s. The White Wolf makes a low sound, almost a gasp. Julian swallows and looks up at them. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

Very slowly, Lord Eskel crouches down so he’s not _that_ much taller than Julian. Well. Still a lot taller. But less. “Goodnight, Julian,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

After that, Lord Eskel and the White Wolf are a little less scary, Julian decides. They really _do_ treat him like he’s a skittish cat, one they _desperately_ want to pet. (There are cats in Kaer Morhen, and some of them will let Julian pet them, but he’s noticed they stay away from most of the Witchers.) Every time Julian is brave enough to approach them, they both go very still and they look _hopeful_ , and they try to hunker down and make themselves look small, and move slowly, and smile, even though the White Wolf doesn’t smile very much at all usually.

They’re really nothing at all like Father.

Julian starts hugging them goodnight _every_ night. They always look so happy when he does, and sometimes Lord Eskel will put a big hand very, very gently on his back, or the White Wolf will brush his fingers very softly through Julian’s hair.

Once he stops being quite so scared of the White Wolf and Lord Eskel, being in Kaer Morhen gets even better. It’s big and cold, but the clothes he’s been given are thick and warm; it’s full of Witchers, but none of them have done anything mean to Julian, either because they’re actually that nice or because Aubry is always there, big and imposing and protective, like the sort of big brother Julian has always _wished_ his brothers would be.

Aubry might be the best part of Kaer Morhen, actually. He’s endlessly patient, answering Julian’s questions easily even when Julian asks _lots_ of questions, and he swings Julian up onto his hip and carries him whenever the stairs of Kaer Morhen get to be a bit too much (there are _so many_ stairs), and he teaches Julian to swim a little in the hot springs down in the big basement cavern, one hand under Julian’s stomach as Julian splashes along, and introduces Jaskier to the black-and-white cat that likes Aubry best, and plays in the snow with him, and he makes sure Julian’s plate is filled and his food is cut up small enough to eat easily, and sneaks Julian honeycakes - really it isn’t even _sneaking_ , because no one seems to mind if Julian eats them - and he’s just...he’s the best brother ever, even though he’s not really Julian’s brother at all.

Julian hasn’t _said_ that, because he doesn’t know if Aubry would _want_ to be a big brother to someone as tiny and weak and useless as Julian knows he is. Aubry’s looking after him because Lord Eskel told him to, after all; he’d probably be just as nice to _any_ child who’d been given into his care. But it’s pleasant to imagine that Aubry really _does_ care about him, and is so gentle and kind and protective and _nice_ because he really does _like_ Julian, not just because it’s his duty.

He’s just going to pretend it’s real, and that Lady Ciri really does like him too, and Lady Milena, and Lambert - well, Lambert probably really does like him, because Lambert doesn’t seem to be any good at lying - and even Lord Eskel and the White Wolf. That’s a lot more people than ever liked him in Lettenhove.


	3. Chapter 3

**Aubry**

It’s been just under a month since Jaskier became Julian, and Aubry is - horribly - getting _used_ to having a child to care for instead of his friend. He still misses Jaskier desperately, every day, but little Julian is surprisingly good company. He’s bright and inquisitive and cheerful, and he’s come out of his shell a _lot_ in the last couple of weeks. He’s even stopped flinching from Geralt, which was a relief to everyone.

And then Yennefer meets them at breakfast one morning, looking weary and triumphant, and says, “I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Aubry says, and Julian giggles as he claps a hand over his mouth. They’ve all been trying to swear less around Julian - even Lambert - and Aubry’d been doing pretty well.

“After breakfast,” Yennefer continues, smiling down at Julian, “come on up to my workroom, little flower, and we’ll see about - about fixing the magical accident, alright?”

Julian’s eyes go wide, and he cringes back against Aubry’s side, scent filling quite abruptly with terror. “Are - will you send me back to Lettenhove?” he whispers.

“ _Shit_ ,” Aubry says, and gathers Julian into his lap, cuddling him close. “No. You will not go back to Lettenhove. I _swear_ it. No matter what.”

Julian stares up at him with big, tear-filled blue eyes. “Really?”

“No matter what,” Aubry promises. “Even if I gotta raise you myself.” He’s never tried to raise a kid, and he’s pretty sure he’d be terrible at it, but if the worst happens and Yennefer _can’t_ turn Julian back, then fuck it, Aubry will _learn_ to do it right. He can’t possibly do worse than the fucking Count de Lettenhove. Certainly Julian’s already a lot happier and more confident than he was a month ago when he first got here, and at least _some_ of that is due to Aubry’s care.

“You’d keep me?” Julian whispers. “Truly? Not because Lord Eskel said to?”

“Julian,” Aubry says, brushing Julian’s hair back out of his eyes gently, “I would keep you even if Eskel said I _couldn’t_.” Not that Eskel _would_ do such a thing - if Julian can’t be turned back, he’ll be devastated but also utterly devoted to making sure Julian grows up as happy and healthy and _loved_ as any boy could be - but it’s true all the same. Jaskier is his brother, dear as blood kin - dearer, really - and little Julian is therefore his brother too. Aubry would kill or die for the child in his lap; _raising_ him would be - probably very chaotic and deeply baffling, but hardly outside the bounds of what Aubry would be willing to do.

“Oh,” Julian says, and throws his arms around Aubry’s neck, clinging tightly for a long moment. “Alright, then. We can - we can go fix the accident after breakfast.”

“Brave lad,” Aubry says approvingly. Yennefer, he notes when he glances over, is looking a little teary-eyed herself.

After breakfast, she leads the way up to her workroom, and Julian obediently takes off his clothes and puts on the loose smock Yennefer has waiting, and sits down in the middle of an intricate painted diagram on the floor. Aubry takes up a position in the corner where Julian can see him, and Julian relaxes a bit, and even manages a rather shaky smile.

Yennefer spends several minutes moving around the painted diagram, doing moderately incomprehensible things with herbs or small metal objects, and murmuring under her breath. Aubry can’t tell if she’s swearing in Elder or chanting a spell. Finally she stops at the northern edge of the diagram and raises violet-glowing hands and says _something_ , fierce and insistent. The diagram lights up in the same violet fire as her hands, and for a moment the glow is so strong that Aubry winces away from it, covering his face. Julian yelps, sharp and surprised.

Aubry scrubs a hand over his eyes and blinks hard, and there, in the center of the diagram, looking startled and disheveled but unhurt -

_Jaskier_.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Jaskier says hoarsely. “Holy fucking shit.” He clambers to his feet, tugging at the smock - it came down to Julian’s feet, but isn’t much longer than mid-thigh on Jaskier - and lunges at Yennefer, swooping her up in a tight embrace. “You _did_ it, you magnificent witch!”

Yennefer yelps and bursts into laughter. “You madman, put me down!” Jaskier does, and leans down to kiss her forehead.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says.

“You’re welcome, little flower,” Yennefer replies, kissing his cheek. “Welcome back.”

Jaskier hugs her again, quick and tight, and then turns and flings himself at Aubry. Aubry catches him, of course. “Thank you,” Jaskier whispers against his shoulder. “Thank you _so much_ , Aubry - gods, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You’re welcome, little brother,” Aubry says - it just slips out, honestly, the words falling from his lips without thought in the wonder and delight of the moment. Jaskier startles and leans back to meet his eyes, and, slowly, his lips curve into a smile so large it lights the room.

“Always did want a big brother worth the name,” he says, and flings his arms around Aubry again, and Aubry hugs him back, tight as he dares, and breathes in the scent of _Jaskier_ , happiness and bright joy, just as it ought to be.

*

**Jaskier**

The first place Jaskier goes is his own rooms, because running around Kaer Morhen in nothing but a shirt is _damned_ cold. The second place is up to the tower where Ciri is having her morning lesson with Milena, to hug his adoptive daughter and his dearer-than-blood sister and reassure them that he’s himself again, and get cried on a bit, and tell Ciri half a dozen times that he doesn’t blame her at all for the accident, and get cried on a bit more.

The third place is out onto the training grounds. He doesn’t usually venture into the scrum of sparring Witchers, mostly because he’s _busy_ in the morning and also it’s mildly dangerous if they don’t notice he’s there, but he _needs_ to see his lovers.

The first Witchers to see him as he steps out onto the training grounds go utterly still, staring in shock and delight, and the stillness spreads out like ripples on a pond, Witcher after Witcher turning to look at him. The Wolves are at the far end of the training grounds, and Jaskier can see the ripple reach them before they spot him, can see Eskel and Geralt turn from what looks to be a truly vicious sparring match and focus on him like wolves spotting a rabbit - or a long-lost packmate.

Witchers can move _fast_ when they want to. Jaskier has barely taken a dozen steps onto the training grounds when Geralt and Eskel are _there_ , almost tackling him in their enthusiasm. He’s abruptly pinned between two large bodies, Geralt’s mouth on his and Eskel’s nose buried against his throat, both of them making a sort of low desperate _whine_ deep in their throats. He wraps one arm around Geralt and reaches back to cling to Eskel’s thigh with the other, and lets them take his weight, knowing they’ll never let him fall.

Geralt kisses like he’s desperate for it, like a drowning man who’s just found air. Jaskier tries hard to meet the kiss equally, but it’s just not possible; he lets his head fall back against Eskel’s shoulder and gives himself over to it, letting Geralt take what he needs. It’s long minutes before Geralt lets him up for air, and then Jaskier is gently turned around and Eskel kisses him, gentler and sweeter but no less desperate than Geralt was.

“Lark,” Geralt breathes as Eskel finally breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against Jaskier’s. “My little lark.”

“Catmint,” Eskel whispers. “Gods, it’s good to see you again.”

“My wolves,” Jaskier says quietly. “My loves. Oh, my loves.”

He’s not sure who starts the cheering, but the sound rises around the three of them like a wave cresting, every Witcher on the training grounds bellowing their joy. Jaskier feels a little like he’s standing at the center of a hurricane, shielded and grounded by his lovers, their strong arms holding him safe through any storm.

_Long I have wandered through fen and through bog / through forests as tangled as wind-knotted hair / seeking each day for the place I belong / at home with my lovers, who wait for me there…_

*

**Eskel**

Eskel doesn’t have any words to express how glad he is to have Jaskier safe in his arms again, _Jaskier_ not little Julian. He thinks he might be weeping, and doesn’t care. Geralt is making a low sound, desperate and _wanting_ , and it takes Eskel a while to get his mind to work again, but when it does, he tugs gently at Jaskier, backing up step by step with Jaskier and Geralt following, until they’re a little ways away from the training grounds, tucked into a corner. Then he sinks to the ground, and ends up, as he’d expected, with a lapful of Jaskier and Geralt curled around both of them.

“Gods, catmint,” Eskel rasps, burying his nose in Jaskier’s hair and inhaling honey-sweet love, the finest smell in the entire world. “We _missed_ you.”

“So _fucking_ much,” Geralt agrees.

“I am so, so sorry, my loves,” Jaskier says.

“Not your fault,” Eskel says at once. “Nobody’s fault, really. Just...maybe don’t help the cub with her magic again for a while?”

“Oh, believe me, I have learned _that_ lesson,” Jaskier says, chuckling a little wetly. “Gods, you were so _patient_ with me, my wolves.”

“Of course,” Geralt rumbles.

“I remember being scared of you,” Jaskier murmurs, kissing Geralt’s cheeks, nose, forehead; turning his head to brush a kiss over Eskel’s scarred cheek, and humming in pleasure when Eskel turns to catch his lips for a brief, warm, lovely moment. “I’m so sorry. I know that must have been _miserable_ for you.”

“It wasn’t great,” Eskel agrees.

“Fucking awful,” Geralt opines. “But we understood, little lark.”

“We did,” Eskel says. “And you did get over it. Faster’n you did the first time, almost.”

“Well, you kept being _kind_ ,” Jaskier says, snuggling closer. Eskel basically has both Jaskier _and_ Geralt in his lap, now, and really he’s alright with that. He’s also more than a little grateful for Aubry standing in front of their little heap, shielding them from prying eyes. “You know, it wasn’t because you were _Witchers_ , not after the first day or so.”

“It wasn’t?” Eskel says, startled. Geralt makes a soft interrogatory noise from where he’s buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s throat.

“No,” Jaskier says, and his scent goes sad, just for a moment. Eskel pulls him even closer, and Geralt nuzzles him until he laughs and starts smelling honey-sweet again. “No, my loves, it was because you were Ciri’s _fathers_.”

Eskel frowns. “Because we were - oh, _fuck_ , catmint. Little Julian thought every father was like his.”

Aubry growls, a low reverberating sound that Geralt echoes. Jaskier chuckles a little sadly.

“Yeah, I did. I was _wrong_ , obviously, but…” He shrugs, as well as he can while pinned between two very heavy Witchers. “Children aren’t always logical.”

“Fuck,” Eskel says.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt agrees.

“Oh, my loves,” Jaskier murmurs. “My darlings, my gentle wolves, kind as a summer’s day is long, golden-souled as your lovely eyes. You were so patient, and so sweet, and so good with Ciri, and Aubry will tell you I speak truth: I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay with you, here in Kaer Morhen. Even with no memories of you, I learned to trust you again.”

“Truth,” Aubry confirms quietly.

Eskel buries his face in Jaskier’s hair and just clings to him for a while, to him and to Geralt, imprinting the scent of them on his memory again. Gods, _gods_ , they have their lark again.

Eventually the stone of the courtyard gets to be a bit uncomfortable, and Eskel coaxes his beloveds to their feet. Geralt picks Jaskier up, unwilling to have him even a pace away, and carries him off towards the keep; Eskel pauses just long enough to clap Aubry on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For being what we could not, when he needed you.”

“He is my brother,” Aubry says simply. Eskel nods.

And then he follows Geralt into the keep, down to Geralt’s bedroom, where they can wind themselves around their lark and cling to him in the comfort of Geralt’s enormous bed.

*

**Ciri**

Ciri doesn’t get much work done the rest of the morning, but Milena doesn’t mind. She just hands Ciri some wool and lets Ciri attempt to spin it into thread, sitting beside her in silence and working at her embroidery. She’s decorating another tunic for Lambert, this one with swords twined with roses all along the hem.

Spinning is a good choice, because Ciri’s quite bad at it, having never tried before this winter, and so has to concentrate on it, but doesn’t really have to _think_ the way she does with maths or history or etiquette.

“Milena,” she says after a while, and her lady-in-waiting hums. “Little Julian - I didn’t want to talk about him while he _was_ little, because I didn’t want him to hear.”

“Naturally,” Milena agrees.

“He was scared to death of his father,” Ciri says, and can hear her own voice quiver. “Is that - is that _normal_ , for nobles?”

Milena makes a soft, thoughtful noise, and takes a few more stitches while she considers. “It’s not normal for young nobles to be quite _that_ scared of their fathers,” she says at last. “Most noblemen are not such nasty pieces of work as the Count de Lettenhove, at least to their own kin. But it’s fairly normal for noble children to be _wary_ of their fathers, because in Redania, at least, a noble father has the right to do whatever he wants with his children. Young men gain a _little_ more autonomy once they’re twenty-one or so, but female children are their father’s possessions until they are married or otherwise disposed of. So yes, it’s common for noble children to fear their fathers - or at least the decisions their fathers may make about their lives.”

Ciri loses her grip on the thread, and a whole hank of it unwinds. She bites her lip and gathers it up again, concentrating firmly on the slight pain and the moderately frustrating task until she can think about what Milena said without _screaming_.

“So you,” she says at last. “When you say your father was going to marry you off, you mean you _really_ didn’t have any sort of choice.”

“I really didn’t,” Milena agrees. “Kinder men _will_ allow their children some choice in the matter, but they don’t have to. If I had flung myself upon the mercy of any man less powerful than Geralt, I would likely have been summoned back to my father’s lands quite peremptorily. As it is, though, no one dares anger _your_ father, so I am quite safe, Marta’s idiocy notwithstanding.”

“Oh,” Ciri says, and thinks about _that_ for a while. “That’s why the Count de Lettenhove could send Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, even when he didn’t want to come.”

“Correct,” Milena confirms.

“And that’s why people keep thinking they can ask Papa for _my_ hand. Because they think he can make me marry anyone he likes.” Ugh, what a _horrid_ thought - but Papa would never do such a thing. Not _Ciri’s_ Papa.

“Also correct,” Milena says. “Your father is so unusual a man that I do not think any of the royal and noble suitors who have sent him petitions have quite grasped the fact that he is _serious_ when he says you shall choose for yourself when and who and _if_ you will marry.”

“Oh,” Ciri says. There’s a short silence while she gets her spindle spinning again, and manages several inches of rather lumpy thread. “I really want to stab the Count de Lettenhove.”

“I think you may have to join the line, darling,” Milena says, and reaches up to touch one of her hairpins gently - one of the ones Ciri knows is a silver-washed stiletto. “Certainly _I_ should very much enjoy a few moments’...quiet conversation with the man. And I believe Lambert has expressed the desire to, and I quote, ‘tear out his fucking intestines and strangle the fucker with them.’”

Ciri is startled into giggling: Milena almost _never_ swears. “I can’t, though, can I. It’d be an act of war.”

Milena sighs. “Unfortunately true. We shall have to wait until King Vizimir does something truly idiotic and Geralt finishes conquering Redanian. _Then_ , of course, I think the Count de Lettenhove would be wise to take ship for somewhere as far away as possible.”

“Cranes would find him,” Ciri says.

“True,” Milena says, and glances at the window. “Dinner time, I think.”

Jaskier is at the table, tucked up against Papa’s side, and Ciri throws all dignity to the wind and sits in their laps, throwing her arms around Jas. She hugged him this morning when he came to tell her he was back to normal, of course, but she’s had a whole _month_ without Jas hugs; she needs more.

“Hey now, cub,” Jas murmurs, kissing her hair.

“‘M sittin’ here for dinner,” Ciri mumbles.

“That’s fine, darling,” Jas says, and Papa chuckles and pats her knee. “Your Papa and your Uncle Eskel just spent the whole morning cuddling me like I was going to vanish; I think it’s your turn now.”

Ciri cuddles closer. She’s getting too big to sit on Jas’s lap, but hell with it: for today, she’s staying as close to him as she can.


	4. Chapter 4

**Jaskier**

Geralt stands as supper comes to an end, and all eyes turn to him, a hush falling over the hall. Jaskier blinks up at his beloved: Geralt very rarely makes any sort of speech, and Jaskier hasn’t heard anything about _planning_ one in the last few hours - though he supposes this could have been planned _before_ Yen managed to turn him back.

What Geralt says, to Jaskier’s increasing confusion, is, “Aubry of the Wolf School would speak.”

Aubry stands and comes to the center of the table, and Geralt sits down again, looping an arm around Jaskier’s waist and murmuring, “This is a Witcher matter, lark. Keep silent.”

Well _that’s_ deeply bizarre, but Eskel is also giving Jaskier a solemn look, so Jaskier nods and clamps his mouth shut.

Aubry looks deeply uncomfortable to be speaking to the entire _hall_ , but he puts his shoulders back and looks around, meeting the eyes of every Witcher. “I had planned,” he says slowly, “to ask for volunteers to visit the Count de Lettenhove.” There’s a low, rumbling growl of approval, and Jaskier twitches and crams his fist against his mouth to keep from saying anything. Aubry shakes his head, and the hall goes quiet again. “If we go to Lettenhove,” he says, clearly choosing every word carefully - taciturn Aubry, who speaks so rarely that Jaskier knows this _must_ be vitally important - “to avenge our songbird’s pain, then we must also take up swords against Vesemir.”

Dead silence. Jaskier thinks he’s never been more astonished in his life. Aubry takes a deep breath. “Against Varin. Against Keldar. Against every trainer in Kaer Morhen.”

_Now_ there’s noise, a slowly rising rumble of confusion and unhappiness. Aubry doesn’t back down. “As cruel as the Count de Lettenhove ever was,” he says, “our training is crueller. As much pain as our songbird endured, our trainees endure far worse, and if we condemn the Count de Lettenhove, we must condemn ourselves.”

Silence again, and this time for all that Jaskier has a purely human nose, he almost thinks he can _smell_ the wave of shock that sweeps the room. Aubry stands there, waiting. Slowly, a Witcher rises from the Griffin table: Keldar, the oldest Griffin yet living, older even than Vesemir, who has taught generations of Witchers.

“How else should we train them?” he demands. “The Path is hard. A boy must bleed so a Witcher will not die.”

Aubry nods respectfully to him, but it’s _Coën_ who rises to reply to the oldest Witcher of his School. “It was so, sir,” he says, “before we came to Kaer Morhen to join our brethren.” He sweeps a hand at the gathered Witchers. “But now we do not venture out onto the Path alone, as it was in former years. We are not met with hatred and contempt. We do not fight outnumbered and injured against the monsters of the world.” He glances over at the Viper table, catching Letho’s eyes, then looks to Cedric and Axel of the Cats, Stefan, Ealdred, Junod, all of Ciri’s teachers. “I am one of those who trains the Wolf’s cub,” he continues. “We have taught her gently, for she is precious to us. Yet I would dare set her against any trainee who has not yet passed his Trials, and I would wager that she would triumph. Our gentleness has not left her weak.”

There’s a low murmur at that, and many Witchers turn to look at Ciri, who sits up a little straighter and meets their eyes squarely. Jaskier turns to look at her, too: their cub, fierce and fearless as her father, who he _knows_ is better with a dagger or a sword than most of the adult human warriors in the keep, who is strong and fast and agile almost beyond belief.

Letho stands up. “I trained Julita, Jan’s daughter,” he says bluntly. “I did not beat her, nor leave her weeping, nor run her to exhaustion. She has never bled at my hands. But she is as dangerous as any human can be, with a dagger at least.”

Aiden stands, and Cedric and Axel shift a little closer to him in support. “I’ve been training with Milena,” he says. “Kitten’s got what, a year of training? And started later than we ever do. But she’s deadly all the same, and you _all_ know Lam’s never so much as scratched her.” Several Witchers snort agreement; Lambert’s protective devotion is well known.

“They are girls,” Varin objects. “Girls are not suited to -”

“Oh, finish that sentence, I dare you,” Dragonfly drawls without even bothering to rise from her seat at the Cat table. “Just because the rest of you fuckers are too finicky to let women through your Trials doesn’t mean we can’t _take_ it.” She raises one hand, spinning a dagger lazily through her fingers. “And anyone who doesn’t think women make fine Witchers can meet me on the training grounds tomorrow for a bit of a _refresher_.”

Her sisters, the only two other female Witchers - lean feral Vesper and short vicious Rach - bare their teeth in bright cruel grins.

“We’ve trained this way for more’n three hundred years,” Kolgrim objects from the Viper table. “What, you want us to change _everything_?”

“Not everything,” Aubry says calmly. “Only those things which are no longer necessary.”

Vesemir rises, slowly, and everyone turns to look at him: not the oldest of the Witchers, nor the strongest, but arguably the wisest, and as everyone knows the finest trainer among them. Everyone but Aubry sits down respectfully as Vesemir moves to stand beside Geralt’s chair. Jaskier can see Vesemir’s hand trembling, just a little, as he rests it on the chair-back.

“I have trained young Witchers for two hundred years,” he says, voice a low thoughtful rumble. “For most of that time, seven in ten died in the Trials. You all remember bearing out the bodies, when the screaming ended. Kaer Morhen’s pyres burned very bright each summer. We trainers,” he gestures down the table, to Varin and the other Wolf trainers in their little clump, “could not -” he hesitates.

There’s a silence, and Jaskier thinks wildly that no one else in the hall is even _breathing_ , as they wait for Vesemir to decide what to say.

“We could not allow ourselves to care,” Vesemir says at last. “To break our hearts again and again and again. Even a Witcher can only bear so much grief. And so we have been cruel.”

Someone - Jaskier isn’t sure who - makes a sound like a stifled sob, loud in the stillness. No one looks away from Vesemir to see who it was. Gods - _The old wolf grieving for his pack, for the pups who died too young / he does not howl his pain to the uncaring moon / he does not show his agony, he seems as calm as stone / but in his heart he keeps the tears that nevermore will fall -_

“Now,” Vesemir continues slowly, “the Trials have changed. We have lost three boys in the last _decade_. The reason to hold ourselves aloof has been removed. That we still do so…” He trails off and sighs. “Is no great proof of our claim to be more than monsters.”

“Boys learn better when they’re beaten,” Varin objects. “Everyone knows that. Makes the lesson stick.”

“Yeah,” Lambert drawls, lounging back in his chair with an air of relaxation that no one actually believes. “But what they learn is to fuckin’ hate their teacher. Just sayin’.” He bares his teeth at Varin, expression nothing like a smile. “Yeah, sure, I can use a sword, pretty fucking well if I do say so myself. I also wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, you fucking asshole, and if we’re all supposed to be the Wolf’s _pack_ , these days, I dunno if we want to teach the kids to fuckin’ _hate_ their elders.” He shrugs elaborately. “But what do I know? I’m just a foul-mouthed little shit who’ll die his first year on the Path. _Oh wait_...I lived.”

Guxart, down at the Cat table, rumbles, “You would have us teach all the boys as we do the cub.” It’s not quite a question, not quite an objection. He’s frowning, but if Jaskier has learned to read Witchers, it’s more thought than anger.

Ivar Evil-Eye taps a finger on the table, scowling in deep concentration. “Cub’s fucking dangerous,” he observes. Ciri grins, bright and proud.

“We already take our lads as squires once they pass the Trials,” Coën puts in. “And the Bears do much the same.” He nods politely to the Bear table. “How much of a difference would it make to take an interest in them earlier?”

Geralt stands, touching Aubry’s shoulder gently, nodding to Vesemir. “This is not a thing I can decree,” he says. “Discuss it with your Schools. Ask it of your consciences. Tomorrow, let us vote - all of us. Let us decide together if we will change this, too.”

_That’s_ a command, and Jaskier is not surprised by the chorus of “White Wolf,” which rises from the gathered Witchers.

It’s possibly the least surprising part of the whole evening.

*

**Aubry**

Aubry was rather hoping he wouldn’t have to talk about any of this _again_. Articulating it properly for the entire hall of Witchers was hard enough. But the next afternoon, once they’re settled in Jaskier’s rooms with the black-and-white cat curled in Aubry’s lap, Jaskier turns his chair so he’s looking at Aubry rather than at his desk, and says quietly, “So. You want to change the training because of _me_?”

Aubry sighs and strokes the cat, which purrs like a tiny thunderstorm. Jaskier waits patiently for him to put his thoughts in order, at least. “You were the...catalyst,” he says at last. “Made me really _look_ at - at us. Our training. You were the same age as the youngest trainees, and I thought - what if Julian were a trainee? And it was...awful.” He sighs, and focuses on the cat for a few moments. Imagining little Julian going through what the _trainees_ go through was enough to make him _nauseous_ , and it takes a lot to get a Witcher to vomit.

Jaskier slides down out of his chair to nestle against Aubry’s side, tucking himself under Aubry’s arm and leaning his head against Aubry’s shoulder. Aubry pulls him a little closer, taking comfort in the warmth of him, the human-quick beat of his heart, the familiar scent of ink and parchment and contentment. “It’s...bothered me for a while,” Jaskier admits quietly. “Pretty much since I got here - well, after I’d gotten my feet under me, at least. But I was never sure I really had the standing to _say_ anything about it, and I figured, I know nothing about Witcher training, for all I know, it _has_ to be that brutal.”

“It...maybe used to be,” Aubry says, frowning. The black-and-white cat makes a sort of chirping noise and nudges his hand, irritated that he’s stopped petting it. Aubry smiles a little and resumes stroking its fur. “What Keldar said - we train hard because the Path is harder. And it’s not yet two decades since the Wolf took charge; barely ten years since Triss brewed the testing potion. Not a lot of time for Witchers.”

“And Witchers don’t change quickly,” Jaskier says, nodding. “I’ve noticed that. You talk about decades the way some humans talk about years, I sometimes think; I’ve heard some of the older Witchers reminiscing about people they knew ‘back in the day’ and it turns out they mean two hundred years ago, but it sounds like it was maybe last week. You’ve got a very...a very odd relationship to _time_.”

“Yes,” Aubry agrees, and thinks about that for a while. “We can’t...let ourselves think about it too hard,” he says at last. “There’s too...too much.” He touches the black-and-white cat’s head, and smiles a little when it looks up at him with a little querulous noise. “Before,” Aubry says, very quietly, to the black-and-white cat’s big green eyes and Jaskier’s patient silence, “if you thought, ‘Another two, three hundred years of this shit…’ Even a Witcher might...give up. So you don’t think about it. Kill the monster, get the coin, move on. Don’t let yourself _notice_ time.”

“Fuck, that’s awful,” Jaskier says, patting Aubry’s knee. “It’s - it’s better now, right?”

Aubry chuckles. “Yes,” he says. He’s not sure he can even start to articulate how _much_ better, honestly. Here he is, sitting in front of a pleasant fire with a _cat_ in his lap, with his little brother safe at his side, knowing that when next he goes to hunt monsters, it will be with allies alongside him, and they will be met with open arms by the villagers who need their aid, and there will be songs and cheering instead of stones and jeers - knowing that the _human_ monsters who have always been worse than any kikimora or barghest could hope to be are now rightful prey, and tremble in fear of the White Wolf’s army - knowing that his brothers will, more than likely, live and thrive instead of dying in the muck of some nameless forest somewhere on the path -

Gods, but it’s better now.

“We have a duty,” he says at last, and Jaskier, who has been amusing himself by tapping his fingers on the cat’s back like it’s the neck of a lute, to the cat’s moderate bemusement, looks up and makes a noise so like the cat’s curious sounds that Aubry has to laugh. Jaskier chuckles and sticks out his tongue. Aubry taps him on the nose gently before going back to petting the cat.

“We have a duty,” he repeats quietly. “If we hunt human monsters, we cannot _be_ monsters. No hypocrisy. No dithering. We have a _duty_.”

*

**Eskel**

Eskel watches the Witchers fill the hall, trying to predict which way tonight’s vote is going to go. The Wolf School’s debate this morning was actually a lot less acrimonious than he’d expected: besides Varin, who’s always been a sadistic bastard, most of the trainers were at least willing to _consider_ changing their strategies, given the proven success of the cub’s training, and Vesemir, somewhat to everyone’s surprise, was _firmly_ on the side of a less brutal regimen, which swayed most of the undecided Wolves. The Wolves will stand with Aubry - with _Vesemir_ \- although Varin might still be a problem. Eskel will have to discuss that with Rennes: if Varin can’t abide by the new rules Eskel _hopes_ will be put in place after tonight, he can’t be the swordmaster for the Wolf School, no matter how skilled he is. If Eskel has to put him on permanent monster-patrol duty, he _will_ , but he knows it will earn him an enemy, and that’s...awkward. Not insurmountable, but awkward.

All of that is a problem for after tonight’s discussion, though, and Eskel genuinely isn’t sure how the other Schools are going to vote. When Aubry first brought this up to the small council, Eskel wouldn’t have guessed that _any_ of the Vipers, for instance, would be willing to even consider the ethical issues involved in training the boys as they do - but Letho supported Aubry without even blinking. _Letho_ , of all people. And if _Letho_ thinks their training is too brutal, well, that’s a condemnation it’s going to be hard to refute. (And thank every god for Julita, who is Letho’s snakelet as surely as Ciri is Eskel’s own cub.)

Supper is quiet, far quieter than it normally is; everyone is a little bit on edge, and the scent of the hall is more anxious than it usually is. Eskel does his best to look as calm and collected as possible, and is grateful - not for the first time - that Geralt is so good at being unreadable that even when he _is_ agitated it’s hard for anyone other than Eskel and Jaskier to tell. And Jaskier, gods bless the man, looks as happy and _smells_ as contentedly lusty as he always does, with only a faint edge of nervousness, which goes a long way towards calming down every Witcher within smelling range. If the songbird still smells like he ought, after all, nothing can be _too_ terribly wrong; and after a month without Jaskier’s constant cheerful presence, seeing him tucked up against Geralt where he belongs is a reassurance to everyone in the hall.

When supper is over, no one even bothers trying to _pretend_ they’re going to have a brawl or some music or any other sort of entertainment. Every Witcher turns, silent as only Witchers can be, to look at Geralt. Geralt hums, a sound so soft only Eskel and Jaskier can hear it, and brushes a kiss against Jaskier’s cheek, and rises. The silence somehow gets deeper.

“I will hear from each School,” Geralt says. He isn’t loud; he doesn’t need to be, not in a hall so quiet that Eskel half wonders if some of the other Witchers aren’t _breathing_. Geralt nods to the farthest right-hand table. “Bears.”

Junod rises to his feet: big, hulking, grim Junod, who speaks like every word is a coin he hates to spend, and hits hard enough that he’s been known to knock _trolls_ off their feet. Like all the Bears, he keeps himself to himself; even among their own Schoolmates, Bears don’t really have _friends_ that Eskel’s ever been able to tell. No Bear has a human lover; Junod is one of Jaskier’s bodyguards, some mornings, but the morning bodyguards do little besides stand outside the rooms where Jaskier and Ciri and Milena have their lessons, and Junod doesn’t _help_ with the lessons, as Eskel knows some of the others do. He’s taught Ciri, occasionally, but he’s not her favorite teacher, nor the best of them.

If Eskel had to guess, he’d guess the Bears won’t _care_ about changing the training. Bears...often seem like they don’t really care about much at all. And, indeed, his guess is borne out by Junod’s gruff words:

“Change it, don’t change it, all the same to us. Cubs will learn or die.”

Geralt nods as Junod takes his seat again. Eskel makes a mental note: that’s not really a vote for _or_ against change. The Bears will do as the majority rules. But that is one School declaring itself neutral, which is not the most auspicious beginning.

“Griffins,” Geralt says.

To Eskel’s surprise, old Keldar does _not_ stand. Instead, he turns and nods to Coën, who rises and bows a little to the head of his School, and then again to Geralt.

“The Griffins vote to change our training methods. We do not beat our squires, nor the cub; we would strike down any human lord who treated his vassals so cruelly. It is our dishonor that we have not seen this truth before, and we thank the Wolf Aubry for his wisdom and clear sight.” He bows to Aubry, who nods in return, looking _deeply_ uncomfortable, and then sits down again.

Geralt nods to him and turns to the next table. “Vipers.”

Ivar Evil-Eye stands up, snorts wry amusement, and says, “Letho’s threatened to stab every last one of us if we don’t vote to change the training. And he’s right, which is even more fucking annoying.”

He sits down without any further fuss, and Geralt huffs a very quiet sound of amusement, one only Eskel and Jaskier and maybe Ciri are close enough to hear. Eskel doesn’t let his expression change, but he’s starting to feel genuinely hopeful. Two votes for change, and one of them the fucking _Vipers_. He’d never have imagined such a thing even a dozen years ago.

“Cats,” Geralt says.

Treyse rises, languid and smug as all the Cats tend to be, and smiles slow and wicked. Cats _like_ being bastards, Eskel has often thought, and for all that Treyse is a damned useful man to have on Geralt’s council, he’s still a fucking Cat, and therefore _far_ too fond of drama. “Turns out we’re not too fond of being hypocrites, when we get our noses rubbed in it,” he drawls. “Change the training, Wolf.”

He doesn’t so much sit as drape himself over his chair. _Cats_. Eskel doesn’t sigh, but it’s a close thing. Geralt, of course, nods as politely as he did to the other Schools.

“Manticores,” Geralt says. At this point, it’s very nearly moot, but Geralt, Eskel knows, wants this to be as clear as crystal, wants every School to know they have been _heard_.

Merten shrugs and rises. “It’s not like it matters how strong the cubs are _before_ the Trials,” he says bluntly. “Got to re-learn how to fight afterwards anyhow. Change the training if you like.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Geralt nods all the same.

“Cranes,” he says, and Stefan rises almost before he finishes the word.

“Change it, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “Why keep being bastards if we don’t have to? We want the chicks to grow up to be loyal to their brothers and the Wolf. Why make that harder than it’s got to be?”

Geralt nods. Eskel’s head is reeling. Rennes is the only School Head left to speak, and Eskel knows what the Wolves have decided, which means - which means, allowing for the grumpy neutrality of the Bears and the equivocation of the Manticores, that this is going to be _unanimous_ , or the nearest thing to it.

“Wolves,” Geralt says, turning to Rennes, and Rennes rises and inclines his head briefly to Geralt.

“The Wolves will welcome this change, White Wolf,” is all he says before he sits back down, but it’s enough.

“All in favor?” Geralt says quietly, and the _roar_ of approval, from very nearly every Witcher in the hall, is _deafening_. Eskel joins it, of course, howling his agreement in chorus with the other Wolves, the eerie sound joining the snarling of the Cats and the keening war-cry of the Griffins and the low bass growling of the Bears, the mixed feral noises of three hundred Witchers heralding another change which Eskel never dreamed could come to pass.

But Eskel keeps his eyes open, and he takes very careful note of those who do not join the chorus. For the most part, they aren’t going to be problems - but there are three who are _trainers_. Those, he’ll need to warn the council about.

But better to lose some trainers, send them out onto the Path and never let them near the trainees again, than to brutalize even one more batch of boys.

Geralt smiles as the Witchers finally fall silent again, broad enough that even those who cannot read him well will be able to tell he is pleased. “The training will be changed,” he says. “The council will meet with the trainers tomorrow.” He inclines his head, just a little, to the gathered Witchers. “We will become better than we were.”

“White Wolf,” comes the rumbling acknowledgement, and Eskel does not think he is imagining the note of incredulous _hope_ in many voices. _We will become better than we were_.

With a little luck, their new young brothers will bear fewer scars - on their skin, and on their hearts.

*

**Ciri**

Ciri doesn’t come to council meetings very often - they’re _dreadfully_ boring, for the most part - but she gets a spare fur blanket and follows Jas to the big room they use for full council meetings, because this is _important_. Jas looks a little startled, but he pulls a chair over for her between him and Uncle Eskel, and helps her get the blanket tucked in around her. She has no idea why this room is always so cold and drafty, but it’s _really_ unpleasant.

The council meeting is almost as unpleasant as the cold seeping out of the stone walls. Papa has to growl at people half a dozen times, when the trainers object to the new rules. Papa and Uncle Eskel and Grandpa Vesemir are clearly using the way _Ciri_ has been taught to outline how the trainees will be taught from now on, and Ciri’s glad she came, because every time one of the trainers tries to object that some method or other couldn’t _possibly_ work, they glance over at her and swallow their words. Ciri knows, without any particular arrogance in the thought, that she’s the most dangerous human in the keep. Milena is good with her daggers, and Julita with hers, and Jaskier might not be much good with a sword but his ability to improvise weapons out of random objects is pretty impressive - but Ciri is far, far better than any of them. She’s never going to be as fast as a Witcher is, but she can beat _Zofia_ more than half the time. Zofia’s a trained mercenary, and very good at her chosen profession, but Ciri has been trained since she was old enough to grasp a dagger hilt in her pudgy little hand. She may not be as strong as an adult, but she’s fast and she’s accurate and she’s _dangerous_ , and none of the trainers can honestly deny it.

Coën _said_ he’d put her up against any trainee of the same age, and bet on her, and Ciri’s very proud of that. Coën is one of her favorite teachers, and that he thinks that highly of her makes her very happy indeed.

The talking goes on and on and _on_ , but finally Papa raps his knuckles on the table and nods, and says, “Then it is decided. You may have a week to create new training plans; the trainees will have that week as a holiday. Bring the plans to the council before you resume training.”

That is what Ciri has been waiting for, and she unwinds the blanket and stands, willing herself not to shiver. Every eye turns to her. Papa raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“If you are going to train the new Witchers as you train me,” Ciri says, enunciating and projecting her voice the way Jas has taught her, “then I should train with them.”

There is a short pause, and she can almost _hear_ Papa wanting to object; Uncle Eskel makes a soft hissing sound as he draws breath in between his teeth, and then says, reluctantly, “That is not a terrible idea, cub. It would do well to remind us all of our new guidelines.”

Papa looks even less happy, but he nods. “Very well,” he says. “You will train with the boys.”

Ciri grins and sits back down, letting Jas help her re-blanket herself. “This is going to play merry havoc with our schedule,” he says quietly, giving her a little smile. “And I’m very proud of you, cub.”

Uncle Eskel reaches over to ruffle her hair gently. “As am I,” he murmurs, under the noise of the council taking their leave. Ciri nestles down into her fur blanket and feels very warm indeed.

*

**Jaskier**

Jaskier curls up between his beloveds, Eskel like a solid wall of warmth behind him, Geralt’s nose brushing his, so close they’re sharing every breath. It’s the safest place in the world, here between two Wolves, and Jaskier feels all the tension seeping out of him in time with their slow heartbeats.

The thing is, he can _remember_ being terrified of them, being tiny and scared in the cold dark halls of Kaer Morhen and looking up to see these two enormous Witchers leaning over him, almost as scary as his father. He can remember the fear - but now, remembering, all he wants to do is wrap his tiny self up in his arms and whisper to him, _No, lad, no - they will never do you harm. They will keep you safe, always._

He doesn’t like to think about how much it must have hurt his _lovers_ for him to shrink from them. He can make a guess at it, given last night and tonight, neither of them have even suggested having sex - have wanted nothing more than to hold him, secure between them, so close that there’s not even space for a piece of parchment to slide between their skin. There’s nothing he can do about that now except nestle even closer to both of them, pulling Eskel’s arm tighter around his chest and tangling his legs with Geralt’s, and think as hard as he can about how much he loves them, and let them soak in his scent.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, and Eskel makes a quiet rumbling noise; Geralt just presses impossibly closer. “I’m here, and I love you, and I will never leave you.”

“My lark,” Geralt whispers.

“Catmint,” Eskel breathes, his breath hot against the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

“My wolves,” Jaskier says, and Geralt kisses him, slow and soft and sweet. Eskel tucks his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathes in, deep breaths like he’s trying to imprint Jaskier’s scent on the inside of his lungs.

He falls asleep like that, with his Wolves holding him close, and in his dreams, he wanders the halls of Lettenhove, looking for he isn’t quite sure what. He finds himself in the long corridor near the dining hall, the one lined with alcoves that are approximately the right size for a child to hide in, and drawn by some distant memory, he goes to the last alcove on the right, the one holding the bust of some long-dead Pankratz who really liked owls. Sure enough, behind the pedestal, a small boy is huddled, curled around a flute. Jaskier remembers that flute: his father broke it when he was seven, which means this tiny child is younger than that.

“Hey,” he says, crouching down, and the child looks up, big-eyed and scared. “Hey, Julian.”

Tiny Julian shuffles closer to the entrance of the alcove. “You’re me,” he says quietly.

“I’m you,” Jaskier agrees. “Or you’re me, I suppose.” He sits down, and Julian comes scrambling out to sit in his lap. Jaskier runs a hand through the child’s hair, smiling a little. “Life’s sort of terrible for you right now,” he says softly. “But someday, someday we will not be Julian-who-flinches. Someday we will be Jaskier, who is loved.”

“Tell me about the people who love us?” tiny Julian asks.

Jaskier smiles. “There are a lot of them,” he says. “We have a big brother and a little sister and a daughter, and so many friends. But there are two who love us best of all.” He presses a kiss to tiny Julian’s hair. “ _The White Wolf and his shadow, who runs always at his side / are bold and fierce and brave beyond compare / they share a bond as strong as steel, forever it will bide / but that is not the only thing they share - / The lark who flies between them sings a pretty melody / he makes his nest within their den of stone / he spreads his wings and warbles of their many mighty deeds / and knows that he will never be alone…_ ”

He wakes up still humming the melody, safe in his lovers’ arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come say hello on Discord or Tumblr if you'd like! I am inexplicifics #2690 on Discord, if you want to drop by.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [White Wolf, Shadow and Lark - Song from "The Debt Is Terrible That Must Be Paid In Song" by Inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633384) by [Milaley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaley/pseuds/Milaley)
  * [[Podfic] The Debt Is Terrible That Must Be Paid In Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635307) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)
  * [random arts for the Accidental Warlord series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657351) by [potofsoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/potofsoup)
  * [Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28090980) by [MatrixFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatrixFairy/pseuds/MatrixFairy)
  * [Small witcher, big horse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772889) by [MatrixFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatrixFairy/pseuds/MatrixFairy)




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